


Not Broken, Just Bent

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Anal Sex, Bullying, Cheating/Infidelity, Depression, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Overdose, Self-Doubt, Shame, Trust Issues, Underage Sex, minor character illness, teacher/student relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief look at the lives of John and Sherlock and the events that led each man to believe that they were broken and unworthy of the love of the man they were sure they could never have.</p><p>NTW</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1978

**Author's Note:**

> John -7  
> Sherlock - 2

 The push comes when he least expects it. A rough shove between his shoulder blades as he is running to get the ball he kicked too far. His knees hit the grass before his hands do, just stopping his face from slapping into the damp blades.

“Jeez Donny, careful not to rip the trousers. It’s his only pair.”

John pushes himself up onto his knees as the snickers of the older boys sound around him. “He should be thanking me” comes the taunting voice of Donald Willis. “At least then he will have an excuse not to wear girls trousers.”

John gets to his feet and turns around, facing his tormentors. “They’re not girls trousers” he yells, tears prickling in his eyes, his small, now dirty fists clenched at his sides. They’re really not and they’re not his only pair either.

“Course they are Johnny Boy. I saw your sister wearing them a couple of years ago, just exactly the same ones. Or maybe she wears boys trousers. Would make sense I suppose, being as she…”

Donny never gets any further as John hurls his little body straight at the older boys stomach, knocking him to the ground.

“Get off me, you little shit” Donny grunts as he tries to stop the smaller fists from raining down on his face.

“They are not girls clothes” John yells as he hits out at stupid Donald Willis, the tears now streaming down his face as Donny’s friends laugh and goad him in the background. “And they weren’t Harry’s. They are MINE” he roars as he lands another blow to the larger boy below him, making contact with his nose causing blood to spurt out of the right nostril.  John doesn’t get another hit in as suddenly he is air born being pulled off of the now crying Donald Willis.

“John Watson” comes the stern voice of Mrs Forrester, the schools deputy principal. “What is the meaning of this?” She demands, placing John back on the ground and turning him to face her. The scowl on her face has caused many kids to cringe or cry, or on the odd occasion, both, but John is already worked up, therefore her formidable gaze has no effect on him.

“He pushed me” John yells pointing to Donny who is now being helped up by one of his mates. “And they said my trousers were girls trouser. They’re NOT.” John declares scrubbing at his eyes and then his running nose with the sleeve of his jumper, trying to erase all traces of the tears that had been trailing down his cheeks.

“Right” Mrs Forrester says straightening up. “You…” and she points at John, “…and you…” and she points at Donny, who is now pushing away the friend who had helped him up and is now trying to wipe the blood off of his face, “…Office, now!”

John turns and stomp off towards the main building, the football he had been playing with long forgotten, as he mutters about stupid Donny Willis and cursing (as well as a seven year old knows how to curse) his parents for being poor and having to wear hand-me-down clothes from his cousin Rodney. (NOT his sister, Harriet!)

Not far behind him John can hear Donny cursing (which is far more impressive coming from a twelve year old) about stupid little shits who didn’t know they had it coming. No one bloodied up his nose.

Little did either of them know that Donny Willis lost his reputation of being the bad boy of the school that day, but John Watson had just earned himself a reputation, that would see him all through his schooling years, of being the one small kid who could bring down other kids twice his height.

No one paid him out about his trousers ever again.

~o~

Not too terribly far away, in the office of one of London’s most reputable paediatrician Two parents sit with their young son waiting patiently for the doctor to get around to his diagnosis of their youngest child.

The doctor shuffles the papers in front of him, pulling his glasses down to almost the tip of his nose and angling his head down a bit to read through the report on the top of the file.

With a small cough to clear his throat the doctor, an older man in his late forties, begins to speak. “Mr and Mrs Holmes. As you are well aware there have been many test carried out on young William here. We have had him to various specialists and I too have run my own tests and formulated my own diagnosis.”

Mrs Holmes shifts uncomfortably on her seat as her son wriggles around a bit, although not nearly as much as a two year old normally would.

“Physically there is nothing wrong with your son. His hearing and eyesight are perfect for a child of two. He has the same physical strength as any normal toddler and I can gladly give him a clean bill of health.

“Unfortunately the same cannot be said of his mental state.” 

Mr Holmes reaches out and grabs his wife’s hand as a small sob leaves her mouth.

The doctor continues. “Your son does not speak, although it does appear he understands basic words. He is unable to carry out simple instructions that other two year olds are able to carry out. His coordination is far behind a child of his age should be.”

There is silence in the room as the parents process the information they have just been given.

“What exactly is wrong with our son, Doctor Rutherford?” Mr Holmes asks after a few moments. With a deep breath the doctor looks to Mr Holmes and answers his question, speaking slowly.

“We strongly believe that your son has a condition known as Dyspraxia, although without further test it is not a completely accurate diagnosis.”

“But what does that mean?” Mrs Holmes asks, holding her wriggling son closer to her chest.

“Essentially” the doctor begins “The neurons in your sons brain have not developed properly. Messages in his brain are not being carried out correctly. This is effecting Williams gross and fine motor skills. This would explain the lack of grace and co-ordination when it comes to Williams movement and also his lack of speech.

“He will, eventually be able to carry out these tasks but it will take a lot longer than normal. But it is not only his physical abilities that would be limited by this condition. His ability to learn what the other children around him will also be hampered. It will be slower and he may not be able to grasp what the other children learn, which will lead to frustration and anxiety.”

Mrs Holmes is no longer looking at the doctor. If she does she will get angry and she doesn’t want to do that, because if William sees her upset, he himself will become upset and no mother likes to see her children upset, so instead, she looks out the window to the park across the street as Doctor Rutherford continues to tell her all about how he believes her son will struggle to lead a normal life.

“What about treatment?” She hears her husband ask.

“There really isn’t much that we can do for William’s condition.”

Mrs Holmes frown’s at that. It isn’t his condition. He never asked for this, he didn’t bring it upon himself. This belonged to someone else long before it belonged to her son. She isn’t even sure she believes it is what is affecting her son.

“Constant repetitive actions and patience and understanding is really all we can offer at this time” the doctor tells them.

Again, silence descends upon the room.

“I understand your oldest son is somewhat of a genius?” The doctor asks quietly. Mrs Holmes nods as she thinks of Mycroft, seven years older than his brother, whom he dotes on.

“Then I beg that you do not seek to compare the two of them, for I assure you that young William here will not reach his level and trying to see that he does will only be setting him up for failure and disappointment.”

At this Mrs Holmes stands up so abruptly that she startles a small cry out of her usually silent son. “Thank you Doctor Rutherford, this information has certainly given us much to think about. We will be in contact. Oliver” and she turns to her husband, who has a slight bewildered look on his face, before she turns to leave the doctors office.

Quietly Oliver Holmes stands up, thanks the doctor and shakes his hand and then follows his wife out to the car.

“The man is a moron” Abigail Holmes declares as she straps her son into the car.

With a small smile Oliver slides into the drivers seat, secretly happy that his wife came to the same conclusion that he did. There was no such thing wrong with their son.

A second opinion would be had before the week was out.


	2. 1982

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John - 11  
> Sherlock - 6

John sits in the armchair, his head bowed, as his father continues to yell at him.

“Suspended, again!” John doesn’t need to look up to see that his face has turned an alarming shade of red and that spit has gathered in the corners of his mouth.

“This is the fourth time this year” the older man bellows. “They are saying, one more time and you are out. What in the hell has gotten into you?”

John doesn’t answer. What can he say? That they beat on him because his parents are poor and his sister is a lesbian. The first one would be a low blow to the man who provides as best he can for his family. The second one his father doesn’t know about, and John isn’t going to be the one to open that particular can of worms. So, it is either fight back or spend the rest of his schooling years being bullied and beat up.

Eventually his father calms down and sits on the couch next to John. “Do you really think that she needs this on top of everything else that has happened?” he asks quietly.

John doesn’t need to ask who his father is talking about. Not two weeks ago his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. They don’t talk about it, but it is there, hanging over there heads like a big black rain cloud. It is something that he has kept to himself because if it gets around school it will just fuel the fire for the bullying. Either that or incite pity from his few friends. John isn’t sure what one would be worse.

But his dad is right. She doesn’t need this. Despite her cheery disposition and her need to try and make everyone happy, he still sees the worry in his mothers eyes. When she thinks no one is watching he sees the way her body slumps as the tears she so valiantly holds in for her family’s sake, slide down her face.

No. She doesn’t need this. What she needs is for him to be more like Harry. Keep his head down and bum up and get good grades at school. It’s what she has always wanted for her kids. For them to have the chances that she and his father never had. For them to make something of themselves. And here he was disappointing her once again. As he always did when a report card came home filled with C’s and D’s or when the school rang, asking them to come down to have a word with the teacher. Or when he got suspended…again.

It is what John Watson is good at. Fighting and disappointing people. And sometimes it is too hard to change.

“Look son, I know it hasn’t been easy” his father tells him gently, placing a hand on his knee. “I know what the kids at school say.” John inwardly curses Harry for blabbing. He hadn’t wanted to let his father know all of the things that are said about the family. They are a good family, just a bit…unlucky. “But you are better than them John. You can rise above them. We may not have everything that they all have but we don’t need it. We can get through all of this. We always do.”

John knows that he is talking about his mum again. Her illness. They will get through it. She is a fighter, she always has been. She will be fine. They will be fine. His father needs to believe that. If he doesn’t then he loses all hope. John knows this. Just like he needs to believe that his kids will be okay.

Finally John looks up at his father. His face is only slightly tinted pink now. “I’m sorry dad” he tells him, and it is true. He really didn’t mean to upset his parents again. “I promise I will try harder from now on.” And he will. He will try and stay out of trouble and try and pick his fights better. Preferably when there wasn’t a teacher coming around the corner.

His father smiles and ruffles his hair. “Go on. You know the drill. No TV and the garage needs a good cleaning out.”

With a put-upon sigh John stands up and goes to fulfil his punishment, not for the first time and most definitely not for the last.

~o~

The very next day Sherlock (I do NOT want to be William thank you very much) Holmes sits on the swing as he watches the other children run back and forth, up and down, yelling and laughing and throwing things. This isn’t new to him. He has seen children at the park before, but there has never been so many of them. It is almost overwhelming.

He doesn’t know what to do. Normally Mummy or Daddy of Mycroft push him on the swings or race him to the pond, but there is no pond here and Mycroft is at high school.

Sherlock should be at home, with Mummy but the doctor said he had to _mingle_. It sounded awful. When he asked Mycroft about it Mycroft said he had to make friends. When Sherlock had argued that Mycroft was his friend Mycroft informed him that he needed to make other friends. When Sherlock had asked why Mycroft had then told him that he may not always be around, especially when it was time for him to go to university. Sherlock had laughed and told Mycroft that he was silly. Mycroft was always around and he most certainly didn’t need university because he was already the most smartest person in the world. But Mycroft had insisted and told him that it would make Mummy happy.

So here Sherlock is, on the playground on his first day of school. No mummy, no daddy, no Mycroft and, so far, no friends.

Just then a small girl comes up to him with long red piggy tails and a face full of freckles. “Hi” she says with a huge grin. Sherlock sees that three of her teeth are missing. So far he hasn’t lost any. “Do you want to push me on the swings?”

Sherlock thinks this a stupid question as he is on the swings. Shouldn’t she be asking him if he wants to be pushed? Instead of answering her question he asks his own. “Why do you have so many ephelis?”

The girl looks at him with a funny expression on her face, but Sherlock pays no attention and continues on with his query. “I mean, there are so many of them and they are all over your face” and the comment is accompanied by his small hand making a circular motion in front of her face. “Your skin is the same colour as mine and I only have one, see” and he points to a small freckle just to the right of his nose.

At this the girl bursts into tears and runs off, leaving Sherlock all on his own again, trying to figure out why she was so emotional. He comes to a conclusion that it is probably a girl thing and continues to sit and watch the other children mingle.

“Oi, Weirdo” comes a voice and Sherlock looks up only to see a bright blue ball heading towards him. He is too slow to react and it hits him square in the face with enough force to knock him back off the swing. He hits the ground with an _oomph_ his legs still hooked up on the seat of the swing.

As he untangles himself and pulls himself into a sitting position he finds himself surrounded by five boys, all of different ages. The middle tallest one glares down at him.

“Did you just make my sister cry?” Sherlock opens his mouth to say he has no idea who his sister is but then he takes in the red hair, pale skin, face full of freckles, the odd shaped eyes. He is the brother of the girl from before.

“He’s in my brothers class” says a smaller mousey looking boy with rather large spectacles. “My mum over heard his teacher telling another teacher that he has something called Asparagus and ADB.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the incorrect diagnoses (he and Mycroft had researched both conditions. He had neither). Mycroft did warn him that these children would probably be of lower intelligence than himself, which Sherlock found hard to believe because he already thought that he, himself was stupid. Apparently he was wrong.

“It’s ADD, you idiot and Asperges, not…”

He is pushed again from behind for his efforts in trying to educate those who are not as intelligent as him.

“What did you call him?” Sherlock twists his body around to see who is talking to him. It is a kid in the class next to his.

“An idiot. It’s a noun for an utterly foolish or sens….”

Again he is stopped by being pushed, this time by the red headed boy.

“Think you’re a bit clever do you?”

“Well, I didn’t until I encountered you.” Sherlock can practically hear the wheels turning as the boy wraps his head around the insult. The moment it sinks in becomes apparent as the boys face goes from pasty white to bright red, blending in a bit better with his freckles. He grabs Sherlock by the lapels of his blazer and pulls him to his feet.

“Did you just call me stupid?” he spits. Quite literally. Sherlock winces as the droplets hit his face.

“I said no such thing” Sherlock confirms and the grip on his jacket loosens just a fraction. It tightens again at his next words. “You came to that conclusion all on your own.”

Sherlocks first day at school is not to be the only day that he comes home bruised or bloodied or with possessions or clothing ripped, torn or missing and as much as he continues to try mingling he doesn’t really make any friends.


	3. 1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John - 15  
> Sherlock - 10

John has been doing well, really really well. Since he promised his father, four years ago, that he would do better, he had been. His grades have picked up and he rarely gets into fights. Well, at least not fights that catch the attention of the teachers. But fucking Sean McMahon, fucking Irish prick that he is, really had it coming.

That mouthy fucking prick opened his mouth on the wrong day about the wrong thing.

“I hear your mam finally passed away” he calls to John as John is walking past on his way to gym class. “Does that mean you’ll be taking the role of lady of the house since your sister is more of a ma….”

Sean doesn’t get to finish that sentence as he finds himself pushed up against the locker with Johns arm across his throat. “Go on arsehole, finish that sentence” John snarls.

The colour has drained away from Sean’s face. He has only been at the school for a little over a year and has never really seen John fight. He has only heard rumours of what he used to be like.

The students that had been walking to class suddenly stop and watch what is about to transpire between the two boys. It is quiet. All that can be heard is the heavy, adrenaline filled breathing of John, they shaky shallow breaths of Sean and someone playing with the zipper on their backpack.

“John Watson” comes a loud voice, breaking not only the silence but also the tension that has filled the corridor. People don’t move, waiting to see what will happen next. When his hold on Sean’s neck doesn’t release Mr Peterson, John’s Math teacher, walks over and gently pries the arm away. “John” he repeats, quieter this time. John’s arm relaxes and he drops it to his side, stepping back away from Sean.

“Mr McMahon, I assume you have learnt your lesson.”

With a quick nod Sean scurries away and the other students continue onto their class.

“Mr Watson, a word if you don’t mind.” John follows his teacher into the classroom and slumps down in a chair. Mr Peterson closes the door and walks to the front of his desk and sits on the edge facing John.

“John, I heard what Sean said, and I agree, it was completely out of line, but I honestly don’t think …”

“My mother just died and he used that as a way to disrespect my family” John practically shouts at his teacher.

Calmly, Mr Peterson continues. “Yes, and I understand that, but unfortunately, John, there are always going to be those people in the world. People who think that they can capitalise on other people’s misery so I am going to give you a shortcut in the lesson on life.”

His teacher stops and waits for John to indicate that he is listening. He does so by staring Mr Peterson in the eye.

“Be better than them. Learn to walk away or learn to outsmart them, but don’t lower yourself to their level. They are looking for a fight and by reacting, you are giving it to them.”

“So, what? I’m supposed to just stand there and let them get away with it?”

“I know ignoring it is hard, John, but I also know that you’re an intelligent lad. Over time ignoring it will get easier, trust me, and in the mean time, if it gets you down too much find someone to talk to about it.”

John rolls his eyes at the thought of going to the school counsellor.

Mr Peterson seems to know what he is thinking. “I’m not saying that you need to track down Miss Tracy, just find someone you are comfortable with, someone you trust.”

John leaves the classroom with all intentions of forgetting his teachers words, but they don’t disappear and throughout the year John finds himself gravitating towards Mr Peterson whenever things start to get hard. In his maths teacher John finds an unlikely ally, a confidant, a friend.

Which is why it comes as a horribly, terrifying surprise when in the final term John finds himself pushed against the door of his maths classroom with one of his teachers hands rubbing against Johns crotch while his other hand is in his own pants jerking himself off while he is pushing his tongue into Johns mouth.

Apparently John is beautiful and wonderful and has been asking for this for months now. Apparently they both know that he wants exactly this. John believes that it should be true since he is getting hard, but he has never fancied another guy before, and even though he doesn’t get off, his teacher promises next time it will be better.

John leaves, vowing that there won’t be a next time. He knows it is all wrong. It should never have happened. He likes girls. He has had girlfriends. This is not going to happen again. He is going to forget that it had happened in the first place.

Later that night John tries not to think about the way Mr Peterson’s hand had felt on him that afternoon, groping through the material of his trousers as his mouth had assaulted Johns. The way his breath had tasted like coffee and the way his stubble had scraped Johns cheek. The low grunting noise he had made as he had orgasmed.

John tries to push it to the back of his head and go to sleep, but it won’t go away.

Half an hour later tears fall down his cheeks over the shame that is washing through his body as his come dries, tacky, on his stomach.

~o~

Mycroft had told him, all those years ago, that he would one day be leaving Sherlock to go to University. At the time Sherlock had believed it to be silly talk. Mycroft would never leave him. He couldn’t leave him. He was Sherlocks only friend. As Sherlock got older he just refused to think about it and it was never discussed again. Mycroft had always been there. He was supposed to always be there. He is still Sherlocks only friend. Sherlock has people at school who talk to him but it is only when they need help with their homework or their projects, (otherwise the only other form of communication that comes from the other students are poorly thought out taunts and unoriginal insults) but he has no one he would consider a friend.

So when Mycroft proudly informs Sherlock that he has been accepted into Cambridge, Sherlock locks himself in his room for a week, refusing to talk to anyone and only leaving to use the toilet or raid the kitchen at 2am.

When he finally emerges there is a rift between the two brothers that was not there before. It is only small but we all know that small things grow.

By the time the day that Mycroft is ready to leave their home the rift has grown slightly bigger. Twice Sherlock has begged his brother not to leave him but both times Mycroft just told him that it was all going to be fine and that they would still keep in contact.

Now Mycroft stands in the front hall while his father packs the car. Sherlock is sitting on the stairs looking dejectedly at his bare feet. He frowns when another pair of feet come into view. These are clad in brown Italian leather. Sherlock knows that the days of those feet, running bare with him in the back yard are over now. Mycroft has done the unforgivable. He has grown up.

“Are you sure you won’t come to the train station with us, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowns harder. “Why, will goodbye mean anything different there then it does here?”

A small sigh escapes his brothers lips. “No, Sherlock, it won’t.”

“Then I shall save my time and say goodbye here.” With that, he stands up on the bottom step, putting him at a closer height to his brother and looks him in the eye. “Goodbye, Mycroft. I hope your time at university is informative and fulfilling. I will see you at Christmas” and he turns and heads up the stairs.

“I will be home before then” Mycroft calls, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. Why should it matter if he will be home before then. He will only be leaving again.

In his room Sherlock stands by the window, tucked away behind the curtain so should anyone look up they will not notice him. After a few minutes he watches as his parents and brother get into the car and it pulls away.

Sherlock is determined not to feel anything, but he is only ten and denying emotions at such a young age is not as easy as one would like it to be so the tears fall down his face and he angrily scrubs them away, only for them to be replaced by more.

He doesn’t want to cry for his brother. His brother is an idiot. His brother is just like everyone else, even though they had promised each other that they would be different.

His brother has left him. Just like Grand-mere had last year when Parkinsons had finally taken over. And Mrs Polkinghorn, his third grade teacher, the only one who had genuinely praised him and appreciated his talents. Just like Molly, the only friend he had made his whole time at school. They had met each other two weeks before her family had moved to Cornwall. Just like Red Beard had left not even two months ago because he was too old. And just like his parents would one day leave him when they too grew too old.

Mycroft was supposed to have been different. He had told Sherlock that he would always be here. But now he is gone. Just. Like. Everyone. Else.

Sherlock scrubs the tears away one last time, and as he does he promises himself that he will never believe anyone who says they will stay forever.

Because people lie.

They always leave.


	4. 1992

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John - 21  
> Sherlock - 16

John curses himself for not utilising the full amount of time given for the exam. While he was in the room, filling out answers he had felt confident. Now he feels anything but. Question 4 definitely should have been posterior inter-ventricular and he now thinks that he was on the wrong track for the second to last question. And what was he thinking when answering question 12? It definitely should have been answered in more detailed.

God - he should have used the last 25 minutes to go over the exam one more time. Why didn’t he use the time. Why had he thought that he had done well?

Cursing himself John trudges up the stairs to his dingy flat that he shares with his long time friend, Toby. The flat should probably be condemned but it is all they can afford, and it isn’t a campus dorm, so they just make do with what they have. The story of Johns life. When he left high school he had all these visions of life getting better. How wrong had he been? But his options are limited, what with both his parents being dead and his sister being busy with the beginning of her own career. Exhausted and feeling somewhat disheartened John pushes open the door and steps into their living room/kitchen/dining room.

Toby is at the fridge pulling two bottles of beer out of the fridge. It is a testament as to how out of it that John really is that it takes him a few moments to realise that his flatmate is completely starkers. It takes an even longer moment to register the shocked look on his face. “John. You’re back early.” He says not bothering to try and cover up, not that John blames him. If he had a tall, ripped body like that he wouldn’t bother hiding it either.

“Yeah, finished early. Didn’t feel like hanging around, waiting for Mike” he explains, stepping further into the room, suddenly realising that he has interrupted something with Toby and whatever lucky girl he got to bring home today. “Sorry if I’m interrupting something. I’ll just change my clothes and go for a jog for a while. Let you….finish.”

“Ah, no, maybe….we’re out of milk” is his friends hasty reply. “You should go and get some.” John studies Toby closer. He still looks stunned. Panicky even. John opens his mouth to ask if everything is okay, but stops as a familiar voice floats down the hallway.

“Toby, are you coming back? I want you to work that magic with your tongue one more time before John gets back.”

John just stares at Toby trying to think of any sane, innocent reason why Mary, _John’s_ girlfriend, would be in Toby’s bedroom making references about his ‘ _magic tongue_.’ Toby is standing there, looking like a stunned goldfish, his mouth opening and then closing, before opening again, trying to find something to say and then failing.

When no answer comes to Mary’s demand or John’s questioning glare Mary decides she can’t wait any longer and comes padding down the hallway. “What are you not back in bed fu…..” She stops in the entrance to the communal area, wrapped in Toby’s sheet, and stares at John.

“J…John, babe” she stutters. “You’re home. How…how was the exam?”

John’s glare turns from his best friend to his girlfriend. Was she honestly hoping that John wouldn’t come to the conclusion that he had not just walked in on them basically fucking? In his flat?

“Obviously not as good as Toby’s” and he spits the name out “magical tongue.”

If John had thought either of them couldn't get any paler, he had been mistaken for at that statement they both turn an alarming shade of white.

“John” Toby says, stepping towards John, finally coming out of his stupor. “I promise, it’s not what it looks like.”

John laughs, but there is no humour in it. “Oh, that’s good” he exclaims sarcastically, “Because for a moment it looked like you and Mary had been going at it behind my back.”

The silence that fills the room states that, no, in actual fact that is exactly what it looks like.

“We can explain” Mary finally says, sounding unusually timid.

“I’m sure you can” John says simply, a smile on his face, even though he finds nothing enjoyable about this situation at all. But if he doesn’t smile he might just lose his shit and he doesn’t think that double homicide will look good on his resume when…if he finally passes medical school. “But you know what?” he asks, picking his keys up from the side table where he had dropped them upon entering the flat. “I don’t really want to hear it. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to get my things. If both of you could not be here, that would be great” and he turns and leaves the flat with Mary and Toby calling out his name.

He notes that neither of them try to follow him and he is pretty sure it has nothing to do with their state of undress.

John walks out of the building and onto the street. He doesn’t know where he is heading nor does he care. So long as it is not here. Wherever it is can’t be that bad. Surely there is no way that today can get any worse.

~o~

Sherlock manoeuvres the pick in the lock to the left, just a bit more and smirks a satisfied grin as he hears the tumblers drop and click into place. Pulling the small metal rod out of the lock he turns the handle and pushes the door open. The principals office is shrouded in darkness, the pale light of the quarter moon trying to illuminate the room, but failing. But that isn’t a problem. Sherlock has excellent vision whether it be light or dark.

Straightening up he slides the lock picks back into the small case, where it joins the others and pushes the case into his pocket. So far it is the best thing he has pick-pocketed and now made pick-pocketing the second most useful skill he has taught himself. Mastering the art of being able to pick any lock would most definitely rival that of petty thieving. And if his principals door, his first ever attempt, is anything to go by it will be a skill easily mastered.

Sherlock steps into the room, looking around. There really isn’t much to observe. As far as principals offices went it is actually quite dull. Moving cautiously Sherlock makes his way to the desk and sits himself down in the ridiculously oversized chair. It is just as pretentious as the man who normally sits in it. Arrogant, self-important, wanker. Mr Turnbull is much worse than his other headmasters and Sherlock can only assume that it was because he thinks running an all boys boarding school is much more impressive than running a state school. He supposes, looking at it from a professional and social point of view, it probably is but in reality he is still just a trumped up teacher trying to lord his ‘ _experience and qualifications_ ’ over everyone else in the school, which brings him right back around to arrogant, self-important, wanker!

Sherlock opens the second drawer and finds what he is looking for. Tomorrows memos.

In the morning, as always on  Tuesday, Mr Turnbull will hand this folder over to Ms Hillier in reception and ask her to photocopy enough of the top two memos for all of the staff, He will then ask her to photocopy enough copies of the bottom 2 page memo to be sent out to all of the parents, where they will be enveloped, addressed and sent out straight away. And not once will she look at the memos, because that is not her job. Her job is to trust that Mr Turnbull is organised and professional and doesn’t need checking up on. Plus, it also takes time away from Tetris, where she is still trying to beat the high score she managed to fluke three weeks ago. So she shall blindly photocopy the memos as asked and deliver them to correct recipients.

Sherlock opens the folder and looks at the four pieces of paper. As predicted, they are signed, which means Mr Turnbull will not check them in the morning as he assumes that they are exactly how he left them before leaving his office the afternoon before and he is far too arrogant to assume that anyone would want to, let alone could, come in, in the dead of night, and tamper with his precious weekly memos.

Sherlock pulls a folder out of the backpack he has unceremoniously dumped on the floor next to the absurd chair he is sat in and pulls out three memos that look almost exactly the same as the ones that were in the desk. Shoving the originals in his bag he replaces them with the ones he meticulously typed up this afternoon and then signed with a perfect replica of Mr Turnbull’s own signature. Closing the folder and putting it back in the drawer Sherlock silently makes his way out of the office, pulling the door shut behind him and listening as the lock clicks back into place.

Sherlock has another satisfied smirk on his face as he makes his way back to his dorm.

When his parents had first sent him to Boarding School, after being expelled from his third school, he had hated them. They had abandoned him, just like everyone else and although it was expected it had still hurt. He had refused to send them any correspondence and purposely missed the train back home during Christmas break. But it was during that Christmas break that Sherlock realised he could cause so much more chaos here then he ever could back at his home schools. So, he made an effort to not get into too much obvious trouble, which was hard as the teachers here were even bigger tossers, yet still as uneducated and the students were even more tedious than his former colleagues. All of them came from money, as if that was something to boast about, and felt the need to try and prove whose daddy earned more. It was god awful. But it just made his covert activities all the more enjoyable, especially since every rumour that happened to get spread as a result of these activities always held more truth than not, because Sherlock was good at reading people. Not just small things like, what they had for breakfast or when they were lying. He could tell where they had been and with who just by picking out a few base clues. He could generally tell what those people had been up to and what they were planning. He knew exactly who was lying about their families wealth and success (this helped because his parents actually did run in the same circles that many of these students claimed to as well, but actually didn’t) and he knew who exactly was dealing pot and where from, and he knew what teacher was sleeping with what teacher…or student.

As expected, people don’t like to hear what Sherlock observes and he has learnt the hard way to keep it to himself. (It appears pretty boys punch just as hard as rugby boys!) But that isn’t always possible as apparently his verbal filter is somewhat defective.

Either way, boarding school is the best thing to happen to him as it has given him a chance to develop skills that would not have gone unnoticed under his mothers Hawke like gaze.

It is why tomorrow the teachers will be getting one memo explaining that Mr Turnbull will be going on leave for two weeks at the end of this week (true) while he gets treatment for a rather bad case of syphilis (only partly true - it is only a mild case) and another memo stating that under much deliberation the beef used to make meals will now be replaced with horse meat, as it is cheaper and practically the same as cow, but if the staff could please keep this information to themselves as he does not want the parents to hear about it from the students otherwise he would have to deal with a myriad of phone calls once he gets back from break. (None of this was true, but anyone would think that, going by the taste and texture of the meat, they were in fact eating horse.)

The parents of the school would also be receiving a 2 page newsletter detailing exactly what all of their hard earned money was paying for. Some of it being quite questionable, such as a rather generous sum of £2986, on three separate occasions, going to an account titled ‘Lucy Lin’ (It didn’t take long to find out that this was an ‘ _intimate massage parlour_ ’). All of this was true and Mr Turnbull will be glad of his two week holiday. It will be a much needed respite to help him destress before having to deal with the fallout once the parents read that over a quarter of the money they pay each semester is in actual fact not going towards anything educationally related.  

But the most valuable thing, he had discovered, that had come from his parents sending him to this hateful place was that he really was alone and that was fine. It was alone that was going to protect him.


	5. 1995

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John - 24  
> Sherlock - 19.

John looks at the diploma in his hand. He keeps thinking that he should get it framed and hung somewhere. One day he supposes it would go on the wall of his consulting office but seems as he has only been a qualified doctor and surgeon for two months he hasn’t got one of those yet. He looks again at the rolled up parchment in his hand and then slides it back into the protective cylinder before shoving it back in the drawer and slamming it shut again. He doesn’t want to look at it.

Years of hard work and sacrifices and so much doubt and it is finally all over. He is supposed to know exactly what he wants to do now. Life was meant to start getting better but he still feels afloat. All of his friends have picked up permanent jobs but John doesn’t known what he wants to do. Does he want to even stay in London? Everywhere he goes just reminds him of one bad memory or another. Despite having a few shifts at the hospital, and actually having somewhat of a decent pay-check coming in he still hadn’t given up his tiny one bedroom flat that he has rented for the past three years. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t bring himself to make a commitment to something and move on.

All of these doubts had flooded him the night before the graduation ceremony. He had hoped to talk to Harry after it all, since she was the only family that would be there to watch him accept his diploma. She was supposed to be the one in the audience who was proud of him for pushing through and achieving what he thought had been impossible. She was supposed to be cheering the loudest.

Instead she was sleeping off yet another hangover after yet another office meeting-come-party from the night before.

As was the norm, there was no-one there for him that day and to be honest, he hadn’t been surprised. Harry had been slowly slipping, further into the bottle, since she made partnership at the new firm, fifteen months ago. Between meetings and clients and hangovers she hadn’t had a lot of time for John and John was fine with that. Now. It had taken a few bouts of disappointment but not long to learn his lesson. It hadn’t come too hard. He and his sister had never been overly close, but sometimes he thinks it would have been nice to have a bit more support.

Deciding that sitting in his small apartment feeling sorry for himself is no way to work out how to start his new life John stands up and grabs his wallet and keys. He has no clear idea in his head as to where he wants to go but anywhere has got to be more productive than sitting at home watching whatever crap is on telly at the moment.

There is a shopping centre not too far from his apartment that has the nicest bakery so he decides to head that way thinking a croissant would do nicely for lunch which he can enjoy at the park which is only a further ten minute walk from the shop.

As he enters the shopping centre he is met by a large display in deep greens and royal reds. Apparently the army are looking for recruitments. One of the soldiers working the display try to engage him as he walks past but John politely waves him off and continues to the ‘ _Flour Pot_ ’ to get his lunch.

He walks out the other entrance, for some reason wanting to avoid the information stall that had set itself up on the other side of the complex. This exit means an extra five minute walk to the park but John is okay with that.

Over the following four days Johns thoughts are filled with that display and the soldier who had had tried to engage him. For the life of him John cannot think about why it is all he can think about. He has never had any desire to join the army. Granted, it had never been presented as an opportunity to him. Growing up as a child he had wanted to be a doctor. Nothing else had ever mattered or entered his mind (except for those few months he was determined to be a professional squash player). He had missed the presentation the armed forces had given to all the students in his final year of high school but, again, hadn’t thought anything of it. At the time he had issues dealing with his teachers. He never would have survived a commanding officer.

Then during uni all of his attention had been on trying to pass his lectures and exams and doubting himself. The army had not once crept into his conscience.

But now it has made itself known and has taken up residence in his mind like a guest who doesn’t know that it has overstayed it’s welcome.

Everywhere he looks he sees army. A child in the ER had an army toy with him. There seems to be an overload of war movies on the telly. Even the roads seem to be graced with the odd army vehicle more often than before.

On the fourth day of constant thoughts of the army John decides that he has had enough. He goes back to the shopping centre, (which he has been avoiding at all costs) only to find that the display is gone. Not quite ready to give up he makes his way to centre management and obtains contact details from the woman who had organised the display.

A week later there is a rather bulky package waiting for him when he arrives home from a night shift at the hospital. Inside is a whole pile of information and forms to fill out in order to apply for the army.

John takes the following month carefully reading and considering all of the information that was in the pack as well as going out and finding more. He keeps his intentions to himself, not wanting any outside opinions to sway his final decision. He even turns down permanent shifts at the hospital and a part time position at a clinic with a rather reputable surgeon whom he had unknowingly been referred to by two of his lecturers.

He works at building up his fitness levels, telling himself that it has nothing to do with the decision that he was making and all to do with fact that he had been meaning to do this for years but had never had the time. He takes any shift he is given at the hospital and saves all the money he can. His few friends notice that something is up but he just tells them that he is trying to sort through a few things and exactly one month after he received the package John fills out the forms and sends them back.

He is surprised at the short amount of time it takes for them to get back telling him that he has an interview. He makes sure to roster that time off work and attends the interview where he is then called back to ask to sit another interview and a medical.

Again he rosters the time off work and attends the meetings.

Three months after he sent the official paper work off to the British Armed Forces he gets a letter of acceptance.

Sitting on his lounge chair he stares at the piece of paper in his hand and re-reads it over and over again.

He has been accepted in the British Army where he will train to be a soldier and then work as an army medic. He will be part of a formed, unified group and there will be someone there to tell him what to do with his life. He won’t have to take control and that should scare the shit out of him, or at least leave him feeling angry, but it doesn’t.

Instead a sense of relief settles over him, a feeling he hasn’t felt since his mother was alive. He would be somewhere, with a group of people who don’t know his background, who don’t know how he has struggled. It will be a life set up for him. A life with set, limited expectations. No one would think more or less of him than the man next to him. The man in the exact same uniform with the exact same haircut and the exact same priorities.

It will be a new start to a life that was never too great to begin with. This John Watson would no longer have to exist and a new John Watson would emerge at the end of it all. A John Watson that would have a goal, a purpose in life. A John Watson that would be a better man than the one currently sitting in his flat desperately clutching onto a piece of paper promising him a world full of opportunities.

~o~

A deep chuckle leave Sherlocks mouth as he lays sprawled on his bed. Victor is on the floor leaning against the mattress, the bass from the stereo two rooms down pulsating through the walls and into the mattress he is lying on, the sensation feels absolutely unreal as Victors question fills his ears.

“How is your ankle Sherl?”

The sound is like music to his ears. Usually, the other mans voice has a slight nasally pitch to it that makes it just that little bit irritating, but not tonight. Tonight it is lovely.

“That was months ago” Sherlock gasps. God. His voice is heavenly. How has he not notice that before?

He feels, rather than sees, Victor give a small shrug and Sherlock rotates his ankle for good measure before answering. “It feels pretty good” he grins. And it does. In fact, all of him feels good and he gives another deep chuckle as a thought enters his head.

“You did this on purpose” he grins.

“Did what?” Victor answers but Sherlock knows he knows what he is talking about. Sherlock is clever like that. He knows _everything_.

“You gave me that line knowing it would feel so good so then I would want you” and another laugh leaves his mouth at how good that might actually feel.

Again, Victor feigns naivety. “I don’t know what you mean, Sherl.”

Sherlock rolls over onto his stomach so his mouth is right next to Victors ear and he whispers seductively, “You have been trying to get me into bed ever since that mongrel of a dog of yours bit my ankle.”

Victor looks him in the eye, no longer denying the fact. “And?”

Sherlock grins wickedly. “And now, I think I might just take you up on that offer.”

Victor wastes no time in climbing up onto the bed with Sherlock, covering his long, lithe body with his own long, slightly bigger built body and starts laving kisses to the back of the other mans neck. Sherlocks head rolls to the side as Victors lips work over the skin under his jaw and he can’t stop the moan that leaves his lips. ‘I should have been doing this years ago’ he thinks to himself. He is not sure if he is talking about the drugs or Victors mouth, but either way he has made two new discoveries tonight and he is positive that there will be repeats in the near future.

Without warning Sherlock finds himself flipped onto his back, still between Victors legs and he watches, not knowing what to expect, as Victor fumbles with his own belt and fly pulling his jeans and his pants down to mid-thigh. Sherlock stares at the cock that juts out obscenely from Victors body. It is rather quite large and Sherlock feels a mixture of panic and lust roll through him at the various different thoughts of what Victor might do with that cock.

“God, Sherlock, don’t just stare at it. Suck it already” Victor groans, almost sounding as if he is in pain.

Sherlock, not needing to be told twice, pulls himself from out under Victors body and kneels on all fours, lowering himself so his face is level with Victors twitching penis. With a steady hand he grips the base and, not really knowing what to do guides it towards his open mouth. It is just as the tip of the head touches his bottom lip that all control is taken out of his hands, (quite literally) and Victor thrusts forward, pushing his cock as far into Sherlocks mouth as it will go.

Victor groans as Sherlock gags at the feeling of his mouth being so full and then a small sigh of relief starts to make it’s way out of his throat as Victor pulls back out. The sigh doesn’t quite make it out as Victor rams back in, the tip of his cock hitting the back of Sherlocks throat as he gags again. Victor sets up a rather punishing pace, grabbing fistfuls of hair as he fucks Sherlocks face. Tears stream down Sherlocks face as he tries to control his gag reflex, the bitter taste of pre-come barely noticeable as his mouth is used over and over again as a way to bring the man above him pleasure. Just as Sherlock starts to get a feel for Victor’s cock in his mouth, just as he is starting to get into the rhythm, just as he is starting to enjoy it his head is unceremoniously pulled back, the penis popping out with a loud slurp and an obscene _pop_.

“God, Sherlock, you are fucking good at that, but that’s not how I want you” Victor rasps. Sherlock is about object, wanting to continue their previous activities but before he can say anything he is pushed onto his back and his trousers and pants are yanked down and off. Two of Victors fingers are thrust into his mouth. “Suck” the other man orders and Sherlock does, finding this action also quite enjoyable but again he suddenly finds his mouth empty.

“I have been wanting to bury myself in this arse since the day I saw you” Victor informs him as he spreads Sherlocks legs open and pushes one spit slicked finger into his hole. A cry leaves Sherlocks mouth as he bucks off of the bed, more out of surprise than the small amount of pain there is, but Victor uses his spare hand to hold down his hips as he thrusts the finger in and out of Sherlocks arse and it isn’t long before Sherlock is moaning at how good it feels. Again, he finds himself asking why he hadn’t done this years ago. It wasn’t like he had never had any offers.

Sherlock is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Victor shoving a second finger in next to the first until there is a sudden burning stretch that is soon overtaken by the same pleasure as before, just more. The whole time Victor is moaning about how tight he is and about how he can’t wait to shove his cock deep in that tight little arse. And then he does.

Sherlock arches his back and a hoarse cry is ripped from his throat as the pain in his backside intensifies at suddenly being more full than it has ever been before. The stretch and the burn are only made worse as the thick cock inside of him moves with minimal lubrication. He is about to push Victor off when suddenly Victor changes angle and thrusts quite hard and suddenly every nerve ending in Sherlocks body is singing and the song it is singing is fucking wonderful.

Sherlock is aware that he is making noises every time Victors thrusts hit that spot but he doesn’t know what he is saying. It is quite possible that the words are not even a part of any language he knows (and he knows at least eight). With the help of his hand on his own cock it doesn’t take much longer before all that feeling of _so-damned-good_ builds up and overflows, pulsing through his body and forcing it’s way out of the end of his own cock, painting his stomach and hand in streams of wet, warm come.

Sherlock is so busy cataloguing everything he just experienced and getting his brain back on track that he doesn’t notice Victor finishing off and dropping onto the bed next to him. He doesn’t notice much except that wonderful feeling (he is no longer sure what is the sex and what is the drugs, but he doesn’t care either), fading away and frantically tries to think of a way he can get it again and soon.

As they lay there, in the dark, the music from two rooms down vibrating through the mattress Sherlock runs a hand down his chest and stomach, his fingers mixing the sweat and ejaculate that is now cooling on his body. “I demand that you tell me exactly how to get my own supply” he slurs, feeling rather sedate.

Victor shuffles onto his side, his hand reaching out to gently stroke Sherlocks chest. “There is a man, he has the best stuff, who sells it, but he will give it to us for free in exchange for other…. favours.”

Sherlock turns his head and looks at the man in his bed, an eyebrow cocked in question. He has a feeling it’s not free tutoring.

“God, Sherlock. That mouth of yours was made for sucking cock. That alone could keep us in healthy supply on a regular basis.”

Sherlock can see a flaw in this set up. “What about you. What will you do in exchange for the high?”

In the dim light he can see Victor grin. “I’m introducing you to the best dealer around, and on top of that I will give you a mind blowing orgasm anytime you want it. Not to mention all of the other wonderful experiences I plan on introducing you to.”

Sherlocks mind reels at this prospect. If tonight was anything to go by then any other experience that Victor has in mind is going to be greatly encouraged by Sherlock.

“So, what do you say? A bag of coke for a few minutes of being down on your knees?” Sherlock looks a Victor a bit longer, taking in his blonde curls and chocolate eyes.

“How long will the bag last?” he finally asks?

He feels Victor shrug. “If we’re not too greedy another two days, three, tops.”

Sherlock does the quick calculation. A total of two, maybe three blowjobs a week in exchange for total bliss. He could handle that.

The glint in his eye has Victor smiling before he opens his mouth to agree. “We are going to be wonderful together” he tells Sherlock as he rolls over his body once more, lowering himself to suck one of Sherlocks nipples into his mouth. “You will never stop thanking me Sherlock Holmes” and Sherlock can only agree as, surprisingly, he feels himself getting hard again.


	6. 1999

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John - 28   
> Sherlock - 23

John refuses to think of the shame as the other tongue invades his mouth. It is good. They both want it.

He refuses to think that this is wrong, despite the fact that they have to keep it secret.

He refuses to think of Mr Peterson as strong hands grab his waist and pull him closer.

But as much as he wants to refuse all of those things they happen any way, against his will.

He feels shame over wanting not only this mans tongue in his mouth, but also his lips around his cock. He knows that this is wrong and if they are to get caught, not only will they be outcasted by the rest of their team but will be punished by their superiors.

And he does think of Mr Peterson because for nearly three months that man had been the only other man to touch John, and use him just like this. After Mr Peterson had left the school at the end of the year John had refused to acknowledge that he had enjoyed, had craved what they had done. He has since refused the pull towards his attraction for men because while he had enjoyed what he and his maths teacher had done all those years ago it had also brought him a sense of shame because for so many reasons what they had done had been wrong and John has never been able to separate the shame from the wrongness of a teacher having a sexual relationship with his underage student with the shame of desiring the male of the species.

So now as he and Michael Billings rut up behind the mess hall at 2am he can’t help but feel shameful whilst thinking about his math teacher and he doesn’t want either of those things.

What he and Billings has is good. It is wonderful and hot. For almost a month now they have been meeting in clandestine locations and enjoyed a quick hand job or blowjob.

“Stop thinking Watson” Billings pants as he undoes Johns trousers and shoves his hands down his pants.

Johns attention immediately turns to the nimble fingers that wrap around his cock and start tugging, a bit too rough for his liking but they really don’t have a lot of time. He leans back in and places his lips back over the darker mans, sucking his tongue into his mouth. Billings groans and pulls back.

“God, I want you to fuck me John.”

John freezes. This was new. Neither of them had ever hinted at penetration before. The only experience John has had with anal sex was that one time Mr Peterson…. no, he isn’t thinking about that now. He doesn’t want to think about that now. He never wants to think about that again.

“John, please” Billings begs quietly, his hand stilling but not letting go of Johns cock. “I have wanted this for weeks now. Look” and he digs into his pocket and pulls out a small foil square and a tube of medical lubricant.

John looks from the supplies in his lovers hand to his face and sees large, round, pleading eyes staring at him. John has never, in his life, fallen for sad puppy dog eyes but something in Billings’ expression eats away at his doubts and he finds himself plucking the foil from Michaels hand.

“How do you want to do this?” John asks and the expression on the man before him goes from pleading to very, very pleased. Faster than John has ever seen the man move he undoes his trousers and, turning to lean over a couple of crates that are stacked behind the building, he pushes them, along with his pants down to his knees. “Hard and fast, Watson” is his reply.

John’s mouth goes dry at the sight before him. He knows Billings is a fit man. He has seen him naked in the shower countless times, but never before has that firm arse been thrust out at him so seductively. John feels all the blood rush to his groin and his cock fills up, working its way out of the top of his exposed pants.

“Come on Watson, we don’t have all night” Billings complains with a small wiggle of his backside and that does it for John. Without another word he steps forward and shucks his bottoms down to mid-thigh and tears open the condom, rolling it down his length. He then reaches forward and plucks the lube out of Billings’ hand and unscrews the cap, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers.

“Stealing medical supplies?” John accuses as he works one finger into Billings’ tight hole.

The man before him groans and arches his back, pushing further onto John’s finger. “Consider it payment for all the overtime we do” he groans and John works his finger in and out, over again until the man is begging for more. It doesn’t take John long to open him up adequately enough and a long sigh leaves both of them as John pushes his cock in, in one hard thrust.

“John” Billings groans. “Move.”

All thoughts of shame and teachers flee his mind as John gets to work on the hard and fast request, building up a pace that is just that. They keep their moans and cries as quiet as possible as the sound of their skin slapping together sounds out in the quiet night. Their breaths come out hard and shallow as the tension builds up in both of them. Billings comes first, his come splattering on the crates before them. Half a dozen or so thrusts later John bites his lip as he fills the condom with his own seed before slowing down to a stop, resting gently against Billings as he calms down.

After a few moments John pulls out and removes the condom, tucking himself back into his pants and doing up his trousers as Billings does the same.

The other man then turns to John and leans down to kiss him, gently, so unlike what they had shared before John had fucked him, hard and fast, over empty supply crates behind the mess hall.

“Thank you John” Billings says with a smile. “Until next time.” And with a cheeky grin he turns and walks away. John knows the drill. In a moment or two he will walk in the other direction. But he doesn’t. Instead he leans against the wall and slides down so he is sitting, his hands hanging off of his knees, between his legs.

He feels thoroughly shagged out and happy, but beneath all of that there is still that feeling of wrongness. That feeling that he cannot shake.

When he gets up over half an hour later the wonderful feeling of fucking Michael Billings is gone, but the hard feeling of shame is still there.

~o~

Sherlock carefully inserts the tip of the syringe into the crook of his arm, a shiver of knowing what is to come going down his spine as the tip pierces the skin and sinks into his arm. Slowly he pushes the plunger of the syringe down and he can feel the liquid flooding his veins. He knows this is going to be good. Westly sold to him and Westly only ever sells the good stuff. His reputation relies on it.

Slowly he pushes the liquid into his system and then lets the needle sit there, hanging limply from the crook of his arm as a sense of nirvana washes over him, completely blanking his mind from the usual whir and rush of every piece of input that forces it’s way into his head on a near constant basis.

As the calm lulls over him he thinks back to his first hit just over four years ago. God, he had been so fucking naive back then. Fucking Victor Trevor. The best thing that arsehole ever did was get behind the wheel of a car while riding out the effects of a fucking eightball shared between Wilkes, Franks and whoever was a part of their fucking Tuesday night orgy.

But in saying that, he did teach Sherlock quite a bit, such as:

  * Just because someone says he has the best stuff, doesn’t mean he does, therefore always look around.
  * ‘ _Being Greedy_ ’ meant Sherlock not being allowed to snort as much as Victor. In that Sherlock soon learnt since he was ‘paying’ for the supply he should get more of the benefits.
  * Snorting fucks up your sense of smell. Injecting has a better effect. Hence Sherlock having his own wonderful 7% solution.
  * The average bag of coke costs £20. He could easily be making double that, if not more, for giving head professionally, therefor giving head is never a fair deal for payment, unless you are rubbish at it.
  * Sherlock is not rubbish at giving head.



Sherlock leans his head back and enjoys the blissful feeling that is washing over him and gently pulls the needle out of his arm. Another few moments and he will be raring to head down to the club at the end of the street. There is a guy that had been playing hard to get the past couple of nights. Tonight Sherlock is not going to take no for an answer.

He takes a deep breath waiting for the buzz to hit but it doesn’t come. Instead that breath cuts off short as he suddenly exhales. Again, he goes to draw in another breath, but he can’t. The air just isn’t filling up his lungs like it should.

A panic, like he has never felt, sweeps over him as he gasps, over and over again for air, then he doubles over as his stomach cramps up with pain and nausea.

 _Oh, god_. _This isn’t happening. What is happening_? He tumbles off of the couch, onto the floor and pulls himself up into a semi crawling position, trying to drag himself to the bathroom, but he doesn’t make it. His vision blurs and the slight content of his stomach makes a reappearance all over the tacky, stained, green and yellow carpet in front of him.

The name Westly gasps from his mouth. It must be the stock. It must be bad. Sherlock mixed and measured it perfectly.

But he can’t continue to think of that. He is in too much pain and he is burning up. With no strength left in him he drops to the ground, only partially aware that he is laying in a puddle of his own vomit. And then he doesn’t care because that is when the shaking starts. The pain in his head is unbearable and after that he blacks out. He doesn’t remember seizing on the floor for over a minute. He doesn’t remember losing control of his bladder like an old man who has lost most of his faculties, rather than a young, reasonably healthy man of 23 and he doesn’t remember the tremors that rocked his body hours after he had passed out.

He does remember waking up, after the sun has risen, alone and scared and in so much pain. He does remember practically dragging himself into the bathroom and into the shower, turning the cold water on, because he can’t reach the hot water tap from his position on the hard, cold tiles and letting the icy water wash away his shame. He does remember crying as he curls himself into a tight ball once he has shut the water off as he runs through his head all that had happened.

And he does remember that it may have been his fault. He had been eager to get to the club. He had miscalculated the dose. He had done something he had never done before. He had overdosed.

For a week Sherlock doesn’t touch the stuff. He throws out his supplies and avoid Westly at all costs. But then the noise in his head gets loud and persistent and he remembers that it was his fault and he remembers what he did wrong and he promises himself that he will be careful from now on. And he goes and finds Westly because tonight he is going to find peace and quiet and have the time of his life.


	7. 2005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John - 34  
> Sherlock - 29

John yawns as two hands work at the muscles on his neck and shoulders while dropping the pen he has been using to fill out his report. He had been woken up just after 4am to perform an emergency appendectomy of all things. Now he is left filling out the paper work. When he had dreams, as a young boy, of becoming a doctor the only paperwork he had imagined was signing prescriptions. Oh, how wrong he had been.

“You heading out?” he asks, not needing to look up at the person rubbing all of the tension out of his aching shoulders with skilled and familiar hands.

The man behind him leans down and places a kiss on the top of John’s head before answering. “Leaving out in about twenty minutes. We should be back around the time you get off your shift.”

John leans his head back and looks up into the green eyes of Samuel Cunningham, the man he has been in a relationship with for the past fourteen months. The man who can work him up and calm him down with just a touch of his hands. The man he thinks he might just be in love with.

“You mean the shift I start in just over an hour?” John asks with a tired smile and a sigh.

Sam smiles back as he brushes his fingers back through John’s hair.“And when I get back I will make you forget all about your exhaustion so all you can feel is ecstasy as I ravish your body from head to toe and then back up again” and with that he brings his lips down to Johns in an upside down kiss that elicits a moan out of the man below him as John brings his hands up to card through what would be blonde curls if they hadn’t been cropped so short.

“I look forward to it” John smiles into the kiss, only for Sam to pull away.

“I need to go and join the rest of the team. I will see you in a few hours, yeah.”

John opens his mouth, the words ‘ _I love you_ ’ on the tip of his tongue. But they are not the words that are spoken. Instead, the words that make themselves heard are “Be careful, okay.”

Sam shoots him a grin. “You’re my lucky charm Doc. Why else do you think I seek you out before I leave everytime?”

“Because I’m hot and you can’t stand the thought of leaving me without getting your hands on me one more time” John grins back.

“You got that right” and with a wink and a mock salute Samuel Cunningham turns around and leaves Johns office.

John stares at the empty doorway for a few seconds thinking about him and Sam. Sam was the second (third) man he has ever been in a relationship with, this one not being as secret as the last two. Despite there still being rules about being in a relationship with any of the other men (or women) on base there was a lot more acceptance about two men being romantically involved which has helped with a lot of the issues that John had had when he was sleeping with Billings. He had loosened the hold on the shame that had made a wedge between himself and his former lover, pulling them apart before it really had a chance to turn into something beyond sex. So long as he and Sam were careful and didn’t make it overly obvious that they were together most people left them alone and they were happy with that. But something was holding John back from not only telling Sam that he loved him, but from also admitting it to himself as well, which was the big problem here.

It was the same problem he had had with everything. Apart from studying and joining the army John could not bring himself to commit to anything for more than a couple of months. A job, a flat, a pet. Hell, he didn’t even want the responsibility of a god damned pot plant. How the hell was he going to be able to commit himself to one person for what could possibly be the rest of his life? But there is something about Sam that makes him think that maybe he could make that commitment, and he would be happy with that commitment if only he’d grow the balls to admit it to himself because he is certain that Sam feels the same way.

With a sigh he turns and gets back to his paper work, hoping to at least get a shower in before he has to go to work again.

The day goes slowly. There really isn’t much going on, which from a soldiers and a doctors point of view John should be happy about. No action means no casualties and no casualties is what they all want, but it also makes for not a lot to do and causes the day to drag at what feels like a snails pace. John does his rounds in the wards which is currently less than half full. His appendectomy patient is doing fine, as is everyone else on the ward. He gets plenty of time for lunch and does another round before going to check that the supply cupboards are full of, well, supplies.

It is as he is going through the last cupboard when the sirens go off. Wounded are coming in. All hands to the hospital wing. He drops what he is doing and makes his way to the emergency entrance ready to do triage with the other doctors on duty.

Wen he gets there he sees that it is one of their teams. Three had gone out that morning. Something had obviously gone wrong with this one. He doesn’t have time to think about that now. Now he has to sort the dead from the dying to the wounded. It is a task he hates but it has to be done.

There are twelve men in total and all of them are seriously injured, or worse. John has just finished assessing his second patient when a crop of bloody blonde hair catches his eye. His heart stops, just briefly in his chest as he steps towards the body which is lying there, motionless. Even from a distance John can see that he is not breathing. As he gets closer he sees though the charred and bloodied skin to face of the man who had kissed him just hours earlier. The man who had held him just last night as they both came down from the high that can only be produced by a toe curling orgasm. The man that just that morning John had been contemplating spending the rest of his life with.

The sob catches in his throat as Vennings, one of the other doctors steps in front of him and gently turns him towards another patient. “Not now, John” he whispers somewhat compassionately. “Later. You will have time later, I promise” and he leaves John with a man writhing in agony while he himself takes charge of Samuel Cunningham’s body, declaring it dead on arrival.

The cries of the man on the stretcher in front of John snap John back into the now and he callously pushes all thoughts of Sam into the back of his mind, sorting his priorities in order. The man in front of him is alive and in pain and needs urgent medical attention. That is what John needs to focus on and so that is what he does.

The next several hours are spent in a sense of detachment, almost like John the every day man is standing away from it all and watching behind thick glass, as John the doctor operates on the wounded, fixing them up and saving their lives. It is several hours spent of blood and burns and broken bones. Hours filled of searching for shrapnel and internal abrasions and nicks. It is hours of moans and cries of pains and orders for more supplies and more anaesthetic. It is hours of saving the lives of ten men, which statistically speaking is a good thing since one of them was dead on arrival and from Johns point of view is even better because the man who had died on the operating table hadn’t been one of his. Usually that is not a thought that John has but today he chalks it up to being one less thing he has to feel shit about.

It is when he finally gets the shower, he never got the morning before, that the detachment fades away and reality slams into him like a runaway truck on a down hill slope with no breaks. The events of the last twenty-nine hours catch up to him, from the moment that Sam had kissed him goodbye to right now and John collapses under the sheer weight of it all. His knees buckle and he drops down to the concrete floor as the barely warm water slides down his back and he sobs, loud and hard, not giving a fuck if anyone can hear him. It’s not like what he and Sam had was a secret. All of those who knew John knew exactly what he had lost today, even if only a few of them had ever acknowledged it.

He isn’t sure how long he stays like that, but during the time, no one pays him any attention. They let him grieve in his own way and in private. Once he has cried all he is able to he pulls himself up off of the floor, washes the shampoo out of his hair and gets out of the shower.

In his bunk he stares up at the ceiling above him. Grey. Everything is fucking grey. It always has been. School, his mum and then his dad, Mr Peterson and his sister. His multiple failed relationships and his struggle through his uni days. His whole life there has only been grey. He hates the colour. He is sick of it and every time he thinks there is a hint of colour coming in to his life it only fades to fucking dull, useless grey. He should have known not to get too comfortable with Sam. He should have seen it coming, the second he believed that he could have held on to him for the rest of his life. He should have known that one way or another he would have slipped away form John’s grasp.

It is just another sign that John Watson is only ever meant to be content, if not miserable in life. Never happy.

~o~

“You’ve got the wrong man.”

The Detective standing outside the cordoned off warehouse spins around to face Sherlock and Sherlock automatically sees mid to late thirties; married, unhappily; at least one child under the age of three; no more than four hours sleep in the last thirty-six hours; ate a Mars Bar for lunch and has had nothing but coffee since.

“I’m sorry, what?” The grey haired detective asks giving Sherlock a quick once over.

“The man that you just arrested. He didn’t kill the woman” Sherlock repeats looking beyond the other mans shoulder at the entrance to the rundown building and anywhere else that isn’t directly at the detective. Even someone as incompetent as the man before him can’t miss the blatantly obvious. Sherlock is completely strung out and even in his state Sherlock knows that no one takes a man, high as a kite, seriously, even if it is when he does some of his best work.

“Look” the detective starts, “If you have witnessed something you need to come down to the Yard and report it.”

With a roll of his eyes and a frustrated sigh Sherlock finally looks at the man, dilated pupils be damned. “I didn’t witness anything” he snarks. “But even from where I am standing I can tell that those injuries were made by someone taller than the victim and predominately with their left hand. Jason Stubbs was no taller than the victim, possibly shorter, and is right handed.”

“So, you know the suspect then?” the man before him asks.

Sherlock shakes his head and shrugs. “Never met in my life.”

“Then how…”

“I watched your officers put the suspect in the car. Judging by the average height of a police car and where it came up to on the man I would say he is approximately 5ft 5. As he was getting into the car it was his right hand that was twitching, looking for some kind of release on the cuffs, not his left. Next the medics rolled the body out of the building. Even with the sheet covering her body…”

“How do you know it was a her?”

Another eye roll. “The way the sheet sat over the body indicated breasts, so unless the victim had rather large amounts of oestrogen in his system then it was more than likely a female victim. As I was saying” and he sends a pointed glare at the detective as he gets back to the point at hand, “From the length her body took up on the stretcher I would put her at the same height as Stubbs, if not an inch or two taller.”

The detective stares up at Sherlock in some sort of confused daze. “How’d you know his name then?”

Sherlock nodded down at the notebook in the other mans hand. “The same way I know about her injuries. I read your notes.”

The detective looks down at the notebook in his hand as if confirming that, yes there is a list of injuries to the body and the suspects name.

“If you let me have a closer look at the body I could probably tell you who did it. Or, at least point you so far in the right direction that even you couldn’t fuck it up.”

At this the detectives head snaps up and the look of confused awe changes to that of aggravatedly pissed-off.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock ignores the question. “Even if you just let me look at the crime scene I could probably make a decent head start for you, although the body would be…”

“Sir..”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Sherlock, my name is Sherlock, not Sir.”

“Okay…Sherlock. I am not letting you into an active crime scene and I am most certainly not letting you view the body, but I will need to take your details in case any further evidence crops up.”

Sherlock sighs again. Typical. “You think because I noticed more than your bunch of trained monkeys that I must have had something to do with it” he sneers turning to leave. This had been a waste of his time. He had only come over because he saw the flashing lights and was bored. He should have known it would just be irritating - interacting with other people.

He doesn’t get far before he is stopped by a hand on his arm. He looks down at the hand and then back up at the detective and there is something in the older mans face that he can’t quite pin.

“I don’t think you had anything to do with it” he tells Sherlock. “But this is the third identical murder in six days and tonight was the only lead we had and here you are telling me it is all wrong and your arguments are quite compelling. Therefore, I would like to take your details and maybe call you when you’re sober, because god help me, we need all the help we can get on this case.”

Sherlock studies the detective once again and comes to the conclusion that the man is actually sincere. Reaching out and taking the notebook and pen that is still clutched in his hand Sherlock scribbles down, in his barely legible scratch, his name and phone number, and hands them back. In return the detective pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it over.

“If you can think of anything else, give us a call, yeah?”

Sherlock gives a brief nod and looks at the card as the detective walks back towards the crime scene, ducking under the tape and shouting orders to a weasily looking man in blue forensics overalls.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade - easy to remember” he mumbles and then shoves the card in his pocket and turns and strolls away.

Three days later Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, knees hugged to his chest, rocking back and forth. His body won’t stop shaking and the sweat has soaked his clothes through. The pain rolling through his gut is almost unbearable but the DI had said that he would contact him if he was sober but so far he hasn’t heard from the man. He doesn’t want to risk being high when Lestrade makes contact, for some reason wanting to be taken seriously on this matter.

Three nights ago he had felt something, as the high of the drugs ebbed away, as he was throwing deductions at the baffled detective and something wild had surged through him when the man had said they wanted his help. But he hadn’t sought it out. Sherlock had sat back and waited but so far there has been nothing.

A few hours later Sherlock can’t take anymore. Obviously the Detective had been lying. They don’t need his help and despite wanting to be stronger than the drugs, Sherlock knows that he is weak. With trembling hands he tightens the tourniquet around his arm and finds a vein amongst the marks already littering his pale skin, then, as steady as he possibly can while his body is fighting withdrawals he slips the prepared syringe under the skin and floods his system with total and utter bliss.

Before long the tremors stop and he no longer feels hot and achey. The pains in his gut starts to rescind but not before they come back in full force, a wave of nausea washing over him followed by a purge of his stomach contents all over the bathroom floor. Sherlock groans as he realises he has been here before this makes three times now and somehow this seems worse as his jaw clenches and his muscles become taut as his body starts fitting, his mind not shutting down through this seizure.

Distantly he hears someone speak, it sounds vaguely familiar but he can’t recall it.

“Fuck” says the voice. “Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?” and he can feel hands on him, gently tapping his face. “Sherlock” the voice is more forceful this time but he doesn’t hear anymore as now his mind finally shuts down.

When he comes to he knows, before he even opens his eyes, that he is in a hospital. A normal hospital, not the rehab kind he had awoken to after his last overdose. This can only mean that his interfering brother didn’t find him again. But someone had. Someone had been there before he blacked out, but who?

That question is answered after he finally opens his eyes and he sees that, sitting in the chair next to him is the detective from the crime scene. Graham? Gavin? DI Lestrade.

The look he gives Sherlock is a mixture of worry, relief and disappointment. For some reason this hits him harder than when his parents had cancelled their line dancing tour in Australia to come visit him in Rehab the last time this had happened and he has to turn away from that look because he doesn’t understand the way it makes him feel.

“How are you feeling?” the detective asks.

“Like I accidentally injected too much cocaine into my system” he answers, trying to sound acerbic but coming off exhausted.

“That’s not funny” Lestrade answers.

At this Sherlock turns back to him. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. You asked how I felt. That is how I feel. If you don’t like it, then leave.” The words are not said with any force or disdain. They are simply muttered nonchalantly because that is what people do eventually. They leave. Sherlock has just given him an easy out, that is all.

But instead of getting up and leaving the detective narrows his eyes and glares at Sherlock. “You fucking ungrateful bastard” he sneers. “Do you know what it was like walking into your apartment and finding you on the floor like that. Covered in your own waste and fitting to the point that you had smacked your head on the tiles hard enough to need stitches. Do you actually know how helpless one feels in a situation like that knowing that the only thing they can do is sit and wait for the paramedics to get there and make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit, which, by the way, you almost did twice.”

Suddenly Sherlock wants to be angry. He doesn’t want these things pointed out by another person because that means they were witnessed by another person and no one has ever seen him go trough that. They have only ever seen the aftermath and Sherlock had thought that was bad enough. So instead of thanking the man before him for probably saving his life he lashes out because it is the only way he can stop from feeling vulnerable.

“I never asked you to come in and save the day” he snaps, ignoring the pain in his head. “And if you can’t handle a simple drug overdose I can certainly see why you have so much trouble handling a murder investigation.”

Sherlock can see the mans fist clench, probably trying to hold himself back from punching the man in the bed but instead of hitting out he lowers his voice and leans in close to Sherlock.

“I couldn’t give a shit if I had to hold your fucking hand through a drug overdose, trust me, I have done worse in my time but what bothers me, what really fucking bothers me the most about all of this is the that in the fifteen minutes I spent with you the other night I could see all of the potential you had to be great, even if it had been hampered down by the drugs. I could see how brilliant you could be if only you weren’t so self destructive. What bothers me is that someone that talented is prepared to throw it away for some chemical high that leaves just as quick as it comes.” At this Lestrade stands up. “I hope the drugs are worth it in the end Sherlock. When you decide they’re not give me a call, because until you are clean, I refuse to work with you” and then he turns and exits the room leaving Sherlock to sit and think about everything the man had said.

Three hours later he is not surprised to see his brother walk through the door, umbrella in hand, nor is he surprised when he volunteers himself for rehab.


	8. 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John - 39  
> Sherlock - 34

John wakes up to the sound of gunfire, his hand automatically reaching out for his gun. Panic briefly seeps over him when he can’t find it before the realisation that he is no longer in a war zone sets in and the constant hammering of endless bullets being fired fades away to be taken over by the sound of cars driving on the street below.

As the realisation that he is in London sets in so does the pain. The pain in his shoulder he gets. That was real. There is a great big bloody scar to prove it. It is the pain in his leg that he doesn’t get and that pain is the greatest because it is not real which means that physiotherapy and painkillers do nothing to dull the effect. It is all in his head and if he could make it lessen then he could make it go away completely, but he can’t. It won’t shift. It just aches and throbs, and when he has been on it too long is a shooting, sharp pain that will leave him on the ground if he doesn’t have support to hold onto. That is why he has a cane.

Not even 40 and he is an old man.

Looking to the clock he sees that it is only 5:13 in the morning. To early to get up, but he won’t go back to sleep. The dreams are in his sleep. The screams of the dying, the guilt of not being able to save them, although that is nothing compared to the guilt he feels when awake. The guilt of getting out of there alive when so many have died.

After laying in bed for another fifteen minutes John decides that if he lays there much longer he is going to cramp up so he decides to get up and makes his way to the shower hoping the hot water will sooth away the extra aches and pains.

After a shower John makes himself breakfast and sits down at his kitchen table/desk. He is not particularly hungry and pushes the fruit aside in favour of his cup of tea. He has therapy later today. The army told him that it would help. He is yet to come to the same conclusion. He can talk about his days in the war zone until the cows come home, but at the end of the day his therapist can never truly understand. She hasn’t been there. She hasn’t experienced it. She doesn’t know.

Her solution, other than asking questions about how he fucking feels is to write about it. Maybe writing a blog about what he has done and what he is doing now will help him process what he is going through, and maybe it will attract others like him so they can share their experiences. And maybe he should stop seeing her because it doesn’t seem to be sinking in that John has nothing to write about. People don’t want to hear about what happens in a war. Not unless it is like what Hollywood portrays it to be and John can attest that it is nothing like the movies. If people knew what went on there more people would need therapy. And he can’t write about what he does now because he does nothing now. He can’t do anything now. He can’t be a soldier because he is broken, not just physically, but also mentally. He can’t be a surgeon because the damage to his shoulder has left him with a tremor and nobody wants a man with a shaky hand cutting into them.

He could be a GP again, tending to colds and flus and immunisations but the last two jobs he applied for told him that he was over qualified. What the fuck does that even mean? How can you be too over qualified to treat an octogenarians haemorrhoids?

So John has absolutely nothing to write about. Everything that he had was taken away. Everything he had worked damn hard for and been destroyed with one fucking bullet.

Bill Murray should have let him bleed out. It would have been the kinder thing to do.

But John had, two weeks ago, told his therapist that he would make more of an effort so as he sits at the table drinking his tea he pulls out his laptop, ignoring the gun that was situated under it and opens the web browser to ‘The Personal Blog of Dr John H. Watson’. There is nothing else written on the webpage, which he had to pay a spotty teenager to teach him how to set up.

The little black cursor on the screen blinks at him mockingly, each flash of the icon screaming out a Ha; a slow laugh discouraging his every thought, as he tries to think of words to write.

_Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha_ …..John slams the lid of the laptop shut. There is nothing to write. Nothing happens to him.

As predicted therapy is useless. Ella has nothing fresh to say, John has nothing new to say, they sit there for an hour going round and round the same circles they go round every fortnight. She asks if he wants to up his visits to weekly again, he tells her that her doesn’t think it is necessary.

She asks if he has started a blog, he tells her that he has.  She doesn't need to know that the only thing written on it is the title.

She asks how he is sleeping, he tells her that it is in fits and starts and only for a few hours at a time.

She doesn’t mention his limp. She must have finally cottoned on that he clams up when she mentions the limp.

Finally the hour is up and John feels no better. In fact, he feels worse.

John pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks at it, debating on weather to call for a cab or walk to the nearest train station. He looks up at the sky and decides that due to the rare fact that it is blue and cloudless he will walk. Stuffing his phone back in his pocket he ignores the suggestion in his head that he phone Harry to catch up for a coffee. Her office is in these parts and he hasn’t seen her in over a month. But she is probably busy with work while riding out the latest hangover. She would only be moody and snipy and John doesn’t feel like dealing with that. So instead he decides that home is the best place to be while he dwells on the fact that he has almost used all of his savings and the pension he gets form the army really isn’t going to make ends meet once it is gone. Not if he insists on staying in London.

Maybe it is time to move. Not that he wants to. The plan was to always move back to London once he had finished with the army, although that had been a long term plan not a right now plan.

That was in the world where everything had gone to plan. He had been whole and happy and stable. Maybe a change of scenery is just what he needs, despite the fact that just the idea leaves him feeling antsy.

His name being called shunts him from his thoughts. At first he ignores it. John is the most common name going, but then he stops when he hears “John Watson!”

He looks around and sees a tubby bespectacled man in a striped tie and trench coat hurrying up to him.

He looks somewhat familiar but John can’t quite place him.

“Stamford” the man explains holding his hand out to John, “Mike Stamford. We went to Bart’s together.”

Suddenly the picture falls into place. The face looks familiar because it is. Mike Stamford was in his year. They had studied for exams together. How could he have forgotten Mike? Well, in John’s defence the man had put on quite a lot of extra weight since then.

“Yes, sorry, yes Mike. Hello, hi” he stutters taking the offered hand and shaking it.

The other man grins.  "Yeah, I know. I got fat.”

John tries not to let his agreeance show on his face as he denies it with a friendly “no.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over them once they let go of each others hands.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at” Mike comments. “What happened?”

“I got shot” John answers awkwardly. The uncomfortable silence just became a lot less bearable.

After a horrified muttered apology from Mike, a disingenuous assurance from John and a bumbling offer for coffee from Mike John finds himself sitting on a bench in the middle of the park discussing Mikes career. Suddenly the conversation turns to John, which he had been trying to avoid but Mike had always been curious.

“What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?” he asks, genuinely interested.

Deciding to be realistic John answers with “I can’t afford London on an army pension.” God it sounds more depressing out loud than what it did in his head. He is pulled out of his melancholy musings by Mikes next comment.

“And you couldn’t bare to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

“I’m not the John Watson….” He has to stop himself from finishing that sentence because it’s not true. He is exactly that John Watson. The one with no focus or direction. The one with nothing to his name. He wasn’t meant to be that John Watson anymore. That was why he had joined the army. He clenches his fist trying to dispel the tremor that has started again.

Again he is pulled out of his thoughts by Mike talking to him again.

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

John stops the snort of laughter at that idea. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” He thinks back to the phone in his pocket. She gave it to him to keep in contact but has not once called him or messaged him.

“I dunno. Maybe you could get a flatshare or something?” he suggests.

John wants to laugh out loud at the idea. Someone sharing a flat with him. He is moody and wakes up screaming most nights and has nothing to offer. Any potential flat mate would run, very fast, in the opposite direction. “Come on” he says into his coffee cup. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

John throws a glare at Mike as he lets out a little chuckle. It was one thing to tell yourself that you were damaged beyond being able to form basic social acquaintances, but it was almost insulting to have someone you hadn’t seen in fifteen years to also acknowledge it.

‘What?” he asks.

“Just that you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

Curiosity then grabs a hold of John and he can’t help but ask “Who was the first?”

~o~

Sherlock looks down at the phone in his hand.

**You know where to find me. SH**

He hits send and makes his way down to the morgue.

It has been weeks since a he had a decent case and this string of Serial killings ( _clearly not suicides_ ) is too interesting to let the idiots at the Yard cock up.

He doesn’t expect to hear from Lestrade straight away. The DI will need time to push away his pride and stop listening to Donovan’s nagging, but he will come around eventually.

In the mean time there is a body in the morgue that needs flogging.

As he enters the room Mollly Hooper is standing by the slab waiting expectantly as she always does. He walks over to the slab and pulls the zipper down on the bag.

“How fresh?” he asks as he examines the body inside the black plastic.

“Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice.”

Irrelevant. The only thing he needed was the first two words. Sherlock zips up the bag and smiles at the pathologist. It isn’t a genuine smile, but he want’s her cooperation and the fastest way to do that is by being nice to her. “Fine. We’ll start with the riding crop.”

Believe it or not, whipping and beating a dead body with a riding crop is bloody hard work and it doesn’t take long before Sherlock has built up a sweat, but hopefully the results will be worth it. Just as he finishes Molly re-enters to room. She utters something useless but Sherlock ignores it.

Instead he tells her “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me” as he jots down notes in his notepad.

As he is recording the approximate speed and force with which he had applied the strokes to the dead mans flesh Molly speaks to him. “I was wondering, maybe later, when you’re finished …”

Sherlock looks up at her and frowns. “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.” When did she even do that? As far as he was aware she had stood gawking at the observation window the whole time.

Molly gives nervous laugh. “I…I refreshed it a bit.”

Sherlock instantly dismisses this information and goes back to writing in his notebook. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Sherlock notices, out of the corner of his eye, the straightening of her spine. “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee?”

Actually, that wasn’t a half bad idea. “Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs” he tells her as he puts his notebook back in his pocket and he turns and leaves the morgue heading for the labs.

He had been there all morning, apart from the quick stint down in the morgue. It has been a way to remove himself from the noise in his head. The constant droning of life that was normally easy to handle but sometimes just go too much. It was days like these that his veins sang to him. They sang songs of old when he would gift them with liquid bliss and together they would shut out the noise and just enjoy being. It was these days that he had to find another distraction. So Sherlock had decided to look at the two cases that Lestrade had given him the previous day, but at the time he had done no more than give them a cursory glance, deeming them to be no more than a four and refusing to do them. But now the distraction is needed.

Entering the room he is glad to find it empty.

Mike Stamford had been down here earlier. He had commented on how he hadn’t seen Sherlock in a long while. Thought maybe he ad got himself a ‘ _Distraction_ ’. Sherlock had tensed, briefly thinking that Mike had somehow figured out his drug induced past but then it was spelled out to him by Molly that he meant an intimate partner.

Sherlock had relaxed before glaring at Mike. “I can’t even find someone willing to live with me for more than a few hours, why would you assume that I could find someone who would want to spend all of their free time with me as well?” he sneered, but Mike was not fazed.

Instead he looked up from whatever he was tinkering around with and asked, “Oh, are you looking for a flatmate?”

Sherlock had been about to deny that, yes indeed he was hoping to find someone to share a flat with since his insufferable brother still didn’t trust him with _his own_ trust fund but Molly got in first.

“You were saying, just the other day, yeah” and Sherlock instantly knew that she was going to refer to the phone conversation she had overheard him having with Mycroft. Well, it was more like Sherlock yelling down the phone while his brother just tutted away. “That you couldn’t afford the flat you were looking at on your own. A flatmate would be ideal.”

God, he had wanted to throttle her there and then, knowing that Mike would start listing off a bunch of people that he knew (and the list was extensive) that would be suitable candidates, but to Sherlocks surprise the conversation had changed to something he hadn’t any interest in participating in so he had managed to get back to work and eventually the two had left him to his own devices.

Which is exactly where he finds himself now. In the lab, alone, able to carry out the work without any distractions in order to make a distraction from the all familiar tug that would lead him back to a place he has no interest in going.

He is just checking the chemical compounds of a paint sample when he hears Mikes familiar voice on the other side of the door and he groans. There goes his peace and quiet, especially since it sounds like he has a visitor with him.


	9. Mending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is. The final chapter. I would just like to send out a big thanks to all of you that have read and supported the story, and to all of you who will read and support the story. It has been an interesting one to write, but as we all know, everything must come to an end and here is this end. I hope you enjoy it!!

John wearily makes his way up the stairs, Sherlock trailing behind him. Fifty-seven hours it had been since they last left the flat. It was meant to have been a quick and quiet covert stake out on one Mrs Helana Winston of Ealing to see if there was anyway Sherlock could get into the house, unnoticed, to look for her husbands remains because he was certain that the man was dead and the body was still on the premises.

“A few hours at the most John. Bring your gun.” Sherlock had told him.

What it had turned out to be was a six hour surveillance of her house, a break and enter. A two hour stint stuffed in a closet with not only 6ft of detective, but also his bloody coat because the lady of the house and her twenty-one year old lover had come home early and decided to have some pretty fucking kinky sex in the room that he and Sherlock happened to be hiding in. This was then followed by a chase through Brentford through to Heathrow only to be attacked by a swan, which almost lead to a hospital visit. More time was spent trawling through sewers, dumps alleys and conversing with Sherlocks homeless network. The search for the husbands remains (which were not on the property of Mrs Helana Winston) was then continued only for the two of them to find themselves in trouble and without backup…again. Thankfully they survived with nothing more than a few bruises and four stitches to the side of Johns head. Mr Winston’s body had been found, Mrs Winston had been arrested and John had promised to drag Sherlock to the Yard on Monday to give their statements.

But now, they are home and John wants nothing more than a hot shower, left over takeaway, a crap movie which he would probably doze off in the middle of and then bed. The perfect way to wind down from the rollercoaster of events that had seen out the past three days.

“I’m going for a shower” John mumbles as he hangs up his coat and makes for the bathroom.

“Not before me” Sherlock answers somewhat sluggishly also hanging up his coat.

“Sherlock. I smell like rotting pond water because you provoked a swan which then decided to chase me in retaliation. I am having first shower.”

Assuming he has won the argument John makes his way into the bathroom and strips off as the hot water kicks in. He doesn’t even bother with the cold water hoping the intense heat will ease his muscles. He doesn’t get a chance to enjoy it for very long before the bathroom door is flung open and the shower curtain is pulled aside.

“Budge over John” a very muchly naked Sherlock says, stepping into the tub.

“Sherlock” John tries to yell, but he is cut off by Sherlocks bare hip knocking out of the spray of the water.

“ _Jesus fu_ …How hot is this” Sherlock yelps, his back arching in order draw his bare arse out of the path of the steaming hot water.

John doesn’t stop the grin which just earns him a glare from the taller man.

“That’ll teach you for getting into my shower” he says pushing Sherlock over so he can get back under the spray, turning his back to the man behind him before he gives too much away.

Although Sherlock has never got into the shower with him before, in the four months that John had resided at Baker Street he has come to accept that there is no such thing as privacy anymore.

This is made evident by the times Sherlock has appeared semi or completely naked which happens a lot more than one might expect. Sherlock will come out of the bathroom in the middle of his own shower just to ask John a question, foregoing the use of towel. He sleeps in the nude and gets up in the middle of the night to get a drink, again, foregoing the need to cover up for a brief amount of time. Not to mention the times when he swans around in minimal clothing or just a sheet. There are also the instances of him walking in on John in the shower, or in his room while he is getting dressed or that one regrettable time he had his head between his girlfriends legs. He soon found himself single after that and vowed never to bring any of his dates home again.

John has come to accept that he is attracted to more than just the appearance of his mad flatmate, but he isn’t going to do anything about it. Not only has Sherlock made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t do relationships but John also doesn’t want to lose him and John loses everything he gets at some stage, so he doesn’t want Sherlock because he has come to love this strange enigma of a human being who has brought a world of colour into Johns grey life and he had decided very soon after meeting him that he simply couldn’t live without him. But what his mind decides is not always in conjunction with what his libido thinks and John will be happy living the rest of his life if Sherlock never becomes aware that the sight of his lean, naked body sends blood straight to his traitorous cock, therefore he will keep standing with his back to the man who has decided to intrude on his shower.

But never has his naked body been in such close proximity to Sherlocks naked body and it is getting hard to catalogue all of the disgusting things he had worked on as his time as a doctor in order to dispel his unwanted erection.

“John, you are hogging the shower. I need to get the smell of homeless off of me.”

“I can’t help it if your delicate skin can’t handle a bit of hot water.” The smug look is washed off of Johns face as suddenly a rush of cold water takes over the hot that he was enjoying, an undignified yelp leaving his mouth before two strong hands push him out of the way as Sherlock adjusts the tap to warm and steps under the spray.

“You’re insufferable” John mumbles grabbing his shower gel and sponge off of the shelf and sets about scrubbing the last three days of grime off of himself while Sherlock stands under the stream doing god knows what because John refuses to turn around. As John is scrubbing behind his neck he jumps as an arm unexpectedly reaches around him and grabs a bottle off of the shelf in front of him, brushing up against his ribs as it does so. “You could have asked for it” John says sneaking a glance behind him. Sherlock is paying him no attention but he has stepped out of the stream as he lathers up his hair into a ball of foam. John takes the opportunity to up the hot water and step back under it, rinsing away the soap and grime of London. Before Sherlock has a chance to push him back out from under the shower spray he steps to the side and out of the tub, grabbing a towel off of the rack and making his way out of the bathroom. He gets some slight satisfaction from the “ _God damn it…John_ ” as Sherlock steps under the heated water, too tired to realise that John had adjusted the temperature.

~o~

Sherlock has grown attached to John. He knows this. This knowledge came to him after it was too late to stop it from happening. It occurred not long after their first case, after John had made himself quite at home in 221 B Baker Street.

By then it was too late to re-neg on his offer to flat share so the only logical next step was to make John leave of his own volition. After all, Sherlock would only be speeding up the natural progression of things. John Watson would eventually leave, that was a given. Sherlock just needed it to happen sooner, rather than later, before attachment grew into dependency. In fact, Sherlock would be doing John a kindness by bringing forth the termination of their acquaintance prematurely. There would be no use letting the man get too comfortable.

So Sherlock went about being his usual intolerable self but at a more concentrated level. He was rude, lazy and often times cruel. He encroached on John’s personal space and often used his possessions without consent. He left body parts and decomposing experiments in the kitchen. He disregarded all aspects of modesty, flaunting around the house in next to nothing or, on the odd occasion, nothing at all. He had even purposely interrupted John when he was in the middle of performing cunnilingus on his girlfriend at the time to ask him for his opinion on the differences between the effects of hair removal cream versus waxing. Sherlock couldn’t give a toss about either forms of hair removal, but it most certainly provoked a volatile reaction from John. But despite being quite furious he still stayed, even when his girlfriend left him for someone more ‘ _normal_.’

So four months later he is still here, still following Sherlock around London and still calling him amazing. And Sherlock still can’t quite figure out this unassuming man with a friendly, harmless disposition and a weakness for tame, horrid jumpers for John is neither of those things. He is not harmless nor tame, at least unless you have wronged him in some way. He is dangerous and savage and won’t think twice in harming those who harm him or those close to him and Sherlock has found himself in the small circle of people that John keeps rather close. Somehow Sherlock has earned the trust and loyalty and protection of John Watson and despite his better judgement he no longer wants to lose it.

So he continues his quirky ways, because that is how he is and it is how John knows him and accepts him and he keeps his distance, because that is also what John wants. Sherlock was reminded of that when he got into John’s shower this evening. He had known that he was pushing the limits of Johns patience by climbing into the tub with the other man but Sherlock couldn’t handle the grime and smell that was clinging to his hair and skin any longer than he already had. There was that and also the fact that Sherlock is a selfish person, and just briefly he wanted to feel that closeness to John, just for a moment. He had pushed even further by brushing up against him as he reached for the shampoo. They way John had tensed told Sherlock a lot. So did the fact that John refused to look at him and got out of the shower as fast as possible. It is possible that John is a prude, but after spending so long in the army, Sherlock has a lot of trouble believing that.

After the shower John had seemed fine, but that could also be attributed to the fact that John was exhausted and just couldn’t be arsed being offended at that particular moment. So they had sat on the couch eating left over takeaway and watching some droll movie until now, where John has fallen asleep, as is the norm after a big case, and Sherlock is unashamedly looking over every single detail again, noting every minute change from the last time he got to do this.

The only problem with these nights is that Sherlock is also running on depleted energy supplies and the warm (not scorching hot) shower, on top of a meal often leaves him quite sleepy as well so he never gets long enough to study John before he too starts to drift off. Apparently tonight it is going to happen sooner rather than later, but Sherlock isn’t ready to leave the presence of John Watson just yet, so he curls up next to John and gently lays his head on the smaller mans shoulder and closes his eyes, just for a few moments and then he will get up and wake John up and they will go their own separate ways and that is all fine because when John eventually leaves for good it won’t be so hard.

But for now Sherlock wants to rest his tired eyes while he inhales the scent of John, which is exactly where the two of them remain for the remainder of the night.

__________________________________________

John lay in bed, refusing to think about the implications of what he just did. What he told himself he wouldn’t do. Ever. But then he had. He has just wanked over his flat mate, his work partner, his best friend. And all because Sherlock had thumbed a smudge of green curry off of his lip over two hours ago.

Seven months and John had acknowledged that, yes, he liked Sherlock, but no, nothing was going to come of it and it would only make it harder to ignore those feelings if he acted, albeit alone, on those feelings. Seven months and he had done so well but then Sherlock Holmes just had to lean over, while they were sitting on the couch watching telly, and slowly and gently wipe off a smudge of sauce from the corner of Johns mouth, his eyes never leaving Johns lips once throughout the whole ordeal. After he moved his hand away he stared for another few seconds and then sat back and focused back on the t.v. as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

John had been so taken back by the whole thing that after whatever they had been watching (John couldn’t remember the name of it to save his life) he had said goodnight early and taken himself to bed with all intentions of sleeping it off (whatever _it_ was). He was most certainly not going to palm his semi-erect penis to full hardness and then masturbate to images of Sherlock doing much more with those fingers.

But what one thinks they are going to do and what one actually does do are quite often two completely different things.

But it wasn’t just that one thing that had caused all of this. That was just the catalyst. In the past couple of months, since the shower incident, things had been changing between them.

They have definitely grown more comfortable around each other. John has come to expect and accept Sherlocks lack of modesty and has decided to just go with it. He no longer argues with Sherlock when the younger man walks in on John in the shower to discuss what ever is on his mind. He has found it becomes a lot quicker to be left alone if he just answers his questions or lets him talk out whatever it was he needs to say. Three more times they have fallen asleep together on the couch. The last time John had woken up with his face buried in Sherlocks chest with Sherlocks arm around his waist and leg wrapped around Johns calves, anchoring him to the sofa so he didn’t fall to the floor. Neither of them had seemed to mind and both felt rather refreshed after a good nights sleep, which was surprising seeing as it was two grown men crammed together on a rather narrow couch.

Sherlock also seems to seek out John’s opinion more and more often on cases, which was not only a surprise to John but also to Lestrade and the other members of the MET.

What had been an easy cohabitation when he had first moved in has turned into a rather comfortable partnership in most aspects of their lives. It is almost as if they are moving as one entity rather than two completely opposite people.

So it was all of those things, plus the incident on the couch that had led John to finally give into seven months of desire and push his pyjama bottoms down and fist his cock rough and fast until he had to bite down on his lip so he didn’t call out Sherlocks name as come spilled over his fist, coating his stomach.

It was all of that, and more, that has now left John with doubts about his ability to ignore his affections for his flatmate. He closes his eyes and, for a rare moment, allows himself to think that maybe, had Sherlock wanted a relationship, then he could be happy giving him one and he lets himself believe that it would last. It is something that he can finally have and enjoy and no one would take it away from him.

That is not a fantasy that he normally lets himself indulge in because it makes reality harder. But it is a fantasy that he is having more and more often and finds himself considering more regularly, usually as he watches the man work or play his violin or when they are sitting on the couch in companionable silence. Any time, really, that the detective is not watching him, but when he is able to observe the detective. That is when these thoughts come forth and John finds himself, foolishly, feeling a little bit more hopeful than he has in a long time.

~o~

Sherlock looks at the file in his hand running over the data for a third time, since he didn’t take in any information at all the first two times. His mind has been somewhere else. Like going back over last night when he almost leant in and kissed John after removing the smudge of curry from under his lip. Once he realised that was a very bad idea he sat back and pretended to focus on whatever drivel was coming from the television, fighting back the urge to place the thumb he had wiped under the others mans lip in his mouth and suck off the sauce that was still there. Instead he discretely wiped it off on his pyjama pants to eradicate any further temptation.

It is the scenario that has been distracting Sherlock all day, ever since he got out of bed, well to be honest, even before then. But he had hoped that once he got up and found something to do his thoughts would move on from _that._

Oh, how wrong he had been. When Lestrade had been by to drop off a file for a new case (2 murders and an arson attack all linked by Bob Dylan lyrics (whoever that was) painted on the walls of the crime scenes) he couldn’t have been more ecstatic. He had even thanked the DI who had then left probably wondering if he should organise another surprise drugs bust.

But Sherlock had been over the file three times now and he still doesn’t really know any important facts. As he tries desperately to stay focused one more time he hears the downstairs door open and Johns familiar footfalls make their way up to flat B. He doesn’t say anything beyond “Evening” and he hangs up his coat and then he makes his way into the kitchen, putting on the kettle.

“Sherlock” John asks, standing in front of his usual arm chair as Sherlock reads about how Markus Davies had been stabbed multiple times after being garrotted. (Extreme, the killer was quite angry then.) “Why does it look like the insides of our vacuum cleaner are spread out over my chair?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up from the folder in his lap but mumbles out “I needed a distraction” as he looks at the photo accompanying the report.

He hears John give out a weary sigh before placing a cup of tea on the coffee table before Sherlock and then shuffling over to the sofa with his own cup, making himself comfortable at what Sherlock has dubbed John’s end of the sofa.

Sherlock ignores the tea in favour of reading how Margaret Flemming was also garrotted but then beaten across the head with a rather heavy garden gnome.

After a few moments he realises that John has been talking, not at him, but to him. He adverts his attention away from the folder in his hand to the man sitting across the room. “Hmmm?’

“I asked if that was a new case?” John repeated calmly, sipping on his tea.

A frustrated noise left Sherlocks throat as he looks back at the folder in his hand. “Lestrade dropped it off earlier” he confirms.

“Tricky one, is it?”

Sherlock drops the file on the table and runs his hands through his hair, a clear indication that things are not going the way he wants them to. “I don’t know” he confesses irately. “I can’t focus on it.”

John frowns as he looks down into his cup. “Can I see?” he asks, which surprises Sherlock. John doesn’t usually ask to try and look through files unless Sherlock asks him to so he stands up and, taking the file with him, pads over to the couch and drops down onto _his end_ of it, handing the cream coloured folder over.

As John peruses through the file Sherlock can’t help but watch his face, the way his eyes squint, just a bit (he will need reading glasses within the next 24 months), the way he holds the tip of his tongue over his top lip while he thinks and the small crinkle of his nose when he comes across something he doesn’t agree with (quite possibly Anderson’s notes.) Suddenly Sherlock wants more contact with John Watson and without thinking about his actions or the possible consequences of such actions he assembles himself so he is laying on the couch with his lower legs draped over Johns thighs. If John is at all surprised at this action he hides it very well, the only indication that Sherlock has once again wiped out all notions of personal space being the lifting of his arms so Sherlock could settle his feet on his legs before lowering them again, resting his forearms on Sherlocks shins as he continued to go over the file.

“Whats with the lyrics?” John finally asks.

Sherlock shrugs. He genuinely doesn’t know. he doesn’t even know the song or who sang it, nor has he been able to concentrate enough to remember the lyrics to find a meaning.

“Well, it’s not his best song, but the message is pretty clear.”

“How?” Sherlock asks, not really listening, just watching Johns face.

“One of them had a lover whom they turned down in favour of the other victim, and the spawned lover went on a killing spree.”

“Two people are hardly a _spree_ ” Sherlock argues non-committedly.

This time John shrugs. “You know what I mean. I’d wager that there is a secret lover that the police aren’t aware of. Find them and you’ll have your killer.”

Sherlock frowns towards the file. With John spelling it out like that it is most certainly not as exciting as Lestrade had made it sound to be. What’s even more depressing is that he hadn’t solved it himself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks, pulling Sherlock out of his self-loathing stupor.

“About what?” Sherlock asks, taking the proffered file from John.

“What ever it is that distracted you from something you wouldn’t rank any higher than a four.”

Sherlock looks down at the file in his hand, trying hard to ignore how warm Johns hand feels on his ankle. “Just an off day” he replies deciding that telling John that _he_ is the distraction would hardly be fair. It’s not like he was doing it on purpose. In fact, Sherlock had brought the whole lot on himself. He never should have let himself care. His brother had warned him.

“Are you not feeling well?” Sherlock almost gives a small grin at the sudden doctor tone that has commandeered John’s voice.

Sherlock shrugs. “Maybe I’m in for an early night” he says swinging his leg off of John’s lap. “I didn’t sleep to well last night” and with that he shuffles off in the direction of his room.

He can’t be sure, but he thinks he hears John mutter, “That makes two of us.”

__________________________________________

It happens on a Tuesday. There is nothing special about this Tuesday. It is just as ordinary as every other Tuesday. In fact, this one has been rather dull. Not much has happened in the line of case work, no experiments were on the go and John hasn’t had a shift at the clinic. To be honest, if it were to get any more boring a fight between the two occupants of 221B Baker Street would be inevitable. But instead of getting on each others nerves John and Sherlock find themselves standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, each sipping on a cup of tea. John has just completely abandoned the basics of doctor/patient confidence and relayed some semi-amusing anecdote about a scenario at work involving a patient, a golf ball and a very imaginative, albeit uncomfortable placement of said golf ball.

John drains his cup and turns to place it in the sink. As he turns back he finds his chest lightly pressed up against Sherlocks chest as he too has turned to place his cup in the sink. John looks down at where their bodies are connected and then up to the face attached to that body, which happens to also be looking down at John.

It is at that time that it occurs to the each of the men in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street that maybe, _just maybe_ , it could be and without any further thought John leans up and Sherlock leans down their lips joining in a rather tame, but very intimate kiss. Sherlocks hand gently rests against Johns cheek and John’s tongue gently traces along the seam between Sherlocks lips. They pull back and look at each other, each man with a small smile on their faces and then go about their day as if nothing had changed between them, except that it had.

In the following two weeks not much happens. They are more tactile, they progress to hand holding and using each other as a pillow (well, Sherlock uses John as a pillow) while watching movies on the couch. They sit closer to each other in the back of cabs and when quietly discussing things at murder scenes Sherlock has no qualms in leaning right into Johns personal space. They are more relaxed around each other and more seems to be communicated in unspoken actions than before. The kissing happens on a few more occasions but never gets any more heated. it is just something they do, something that signals the beginning of something more to come. But both men are happy to wait patiently for that something to progress naturally. There is no rush.

Two weeks into their _realtionship-of-sorts_ tragedy happens. John is kidnapped and held for two days, being stupidly mistaken, by the criminal, as the detective currently investigating his crimes. For two days Sherlock struggles to keep the frantic panic at bay while he locates John’s whereabouts. A sudden burst of realisation happens and all of the clues fall into place. John is located at a disused railway station in Southwark. Apart from mild dehydration and a bit of bruising he is fine but Sherlock can’t let go of the feeling that he could have lost John. That night he makes John sleep in his bed where he spends the night wrapped around the smaller man, holding him close and listening to him steadily breath that of someone in a deep sleep.

Having Sherlock close by keeps Johns nightmares at bay.

A week later and their sleeping arrangements haven’t changed, apart from the fact that Sherlock has gone to bed more regularly in that one week than he has in the past seventeen years. They don’t do anything but sleep and cuddle, although Sherlock prefers to call it sharing bed space. And they are both fine with that, the natural progression of things.

If other people have noticed that they are much closer they don’t say anything and John and Sherlock don’t announce any changes because when something evolves as gradually as what they have together does it is difficult to call it a change, because, really, nothing _has_ changed. It has just progressed into something more.

It is six weeks after their first kiss that Sherlock and John take the final step in their relationship, turning it from something that is comfortable and intimate into something heated and physical.

It is after a case, a short but interesting case which had the two men racing around London’s backstreet after an illegal underground gambling syndicate. Knives had been pulled, punches had been thrown and adrenaline had spiked. It was the thrill of surviving that had both men, once they had retuned back to their flat, pushed up against each other, hands tugging at clothing, tongues pushing and intwining as teeth nipped while they pushed and puled each other as they stumbled to the bedroom.

In no time at all their clothes are divested and eyes take in their fill of the man they love. The man they never thought they would have. Mouths taste, hands explore new smells and sounds are discovered. Names are uttered and gasped as if in prayer and when John pushes into Sherlock, as their bodies become one, it is slow and gentle. They take their time pulling each other apart and it is the most beautiful thing either of them have experienced. There is no pain, or humiliation or shame. Both men feel wanted and revered and loved. They gasp and moan and cry out and both give as much as they take and when they can take no more, when sweat covers their bodies and their throats are hoarse from crying out, when muscles shake and burn from exertion and breaths become laboured both men come, crying out the others names, bodies held close together.

As they lay together, John encased in Sherlocks arms as is the norm, Sherlock places a kiss on the top of Johns head. He knows, _can just feel it_ , that John will never leave him, will never abandon Sherlock to be left on his own. John is different, has always been different, will always be different.

In turn John places a kiss onto the shoulder of the man under him, feeling wanted and needed and he vows that he will do everything in his power, and beyond, to make sure that this man will be by his side forever. He just knows that Sherlock is the one thing he will be able to keep.

Neither man say anything. There is nothing to be said. Sure, there are words that have never been uttered, but they don’t need to be said for each man knows that they love the other and they know that they are loved in return. Just like they now know that they are not broken or incomplete, they were just waiting for the right time and the right person and as they drift off they both relax knowing that the wait is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bob Dylan Lyrics in reference to this story were from “Lily of the West”, taken from the 1973 Album ‘Dylan”
> 
> “Away down in yonder shady grove, a man of high degree  
> Conversin' with my Flora there, it seemed so strange to me  
> And the answer that she gave to him it sore did me oppress  
> I was betrayed by Flora, the lily of the west.
> 
> I stepped up my rival, dagger in my hand  
> I seized him by the collar, and bodly made him stand  
> Seeing mad by desperation I pierced him to the breast  
> All this for lovely Flora, the lily of the west.”


End file.
